


Priceless First-Age Mathoms And How to Handle Them

by kronqel



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe, Coming of Age, Dragon Helm of Dor-Lómin, Father-Son Relationship, Gen, Rivendell | Imladris, Third Age
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-16
Updated: 2020-04-16
Packaged: 2021-03-02 02:40:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,983
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23687806
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kronqel/pseuds/kronqel
Summary: ”Here is the ring of Barahir,” my foster father said.As if the great Thorondor had taken me on his back to heights where the air is thin and makes things swim before one's eyes, I saw a future before me like vast lands where dark clouds were gathering on the horizon. In those strange dark lands, it wouldn't be enough to be young Estel, but it would be too dangerous to be Aragorn.
Relationships: Aragorn | Estel & Elrond Peredhel
Comments: 4
Kudos: 17





	Priceless First-Age Mathoms And How to Handle Them

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [it's a very ugly hat](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13704654) by [DrabblingSparks (ingenious_spark)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ingenious_spark/pseuds/DrabblingSparks). 



> In ages past, I read the above fic and had an AU plotbunny bite me. The long and short of it is that it inspired me to write this tale, where the ancient game of Pass the Dragon Helm gets a repeat performance in the Third Age. (Hobbits may have been involved at a crucial point. They always show up and circumvent the existing rules like a quiet and orderly middle-class revolution, with express trains and potatoes and mantlepiece clocks and other things that can't possibly have existed there and then, finding bacon and tomatoes when foraging in the wild and so on.) This story has been languishing on my hard drive for a while, and while doing a lot of Aimless Pottering While Laid Off Because of Quarantine, I finally decided to punch it into a publishable shape. I dearly hope that it won't turn into a part of a longer epic.
> 
> My initial idea was to write crack, but the intended victim turned up in the guise of a twenty-year-old Dúnadan with a sorry excuse for a beard that he was very proud of, and he was so earnest that it turned into a coming-of-age story instead. Elrond's first sentence is a straight quote from The Tale of Aragorn and Arwen, the rest is made up by bits and pieces that I've either picked up from canon, by way of fanon immersion or invented myself. Also concerning Elrond, the other reason that the story took this shape was that I wanted to do something more with him, since the hack scribe who wrote TTAA in the Fourth Age probably never met him and thought ”Yah, stuffy Elf Lord born in the First Age, I can write that in my sleep.” Third, there's stuff in TTAA that only makes sense retroactively, such as why Aragorn-as-Thorongil would have warned Ecthelion not to trust Saruman, when he hadn't at that point turned into an active traitor. I hope I addressed that to the reader's satisfaction.
> 
> As a final warning, I haven't had this betaed and English is my second language, the one you love deeply while it keeps betraying you when you least suspect foul play, just for the fun of it. Any typos or misses that you find will be promptly corrected. Characters are copyrighted and the intellectual property of others, no infringement intended, no money being made etc. That said, on with the show.
> 
> P.S. Our young hero's loving mother made him shave off the scruff as soon as she saw him. Or Elladan and Elrohir kept him down and shaved him by force. In any case, he faced the next morning with his noble jawline as smooth as three passes with an Elf-wrought straight razor could make it. The rest is history.

”Here is the ring of Barahir,” my foster father said. ”It is the token of our kinship from afar; and here also are the shards of Narsil. With these you may yet do great deeds; for I foretell that the span of your life shall be greater than the measure of Men, unless evil befalls you or you fail at the test. But the test will be hard and long. The Sceptre of Annuminas I withhold, for you have yet to earn it.”

The world suddenly seemed too big around me when I looked at the ring Adar had just laid in my palm. So small and insignificant, yet it had belonged to Finrod Felagund, in lands long lost beneath the sea. I touched the hilt of Narsil, which the hand of Elendil, and before that the hand of Elros Tar Minyatur, had grasped, many ages of Men and Elves before I was begotten. For all my fancies of finally being grown and having learned during the winter, I now realised my true age and felt properly humbled. Compared to the heirlooms of my house, I was a babe in arms. I was but conceived, slumbering in my mother's womb.

My brothers and I had come home to Rivendell in the early morning. We had crossed the Misty Mountains by the High Pass, finally open now that summer was well under way in the lower lands. The winter, my first one East of the mountains, we had spent as guests in the Beorning villages or together with wandering companies of wood elves, our task taking us as close to Dol Guldur as we could go.

The rest of Adar's household had broken their fast while we saw to our horses, but by the time we had had a hasty rinse by the stable pump and beaten out our mantles, Mistress Vanniel of the kitchens had fried up the leftover oat porridge for us, ready to serve with butter and buckwheat honey, and a hot apple-peel draught brewed up with fragrant barks and resins to complement the flavour. In the middle of our meal, our father had appeared in the kitchen and helped to put away the clean dishes, in the artless fashion of the house of Rivendell when no honoured guests were present. After that, he had joined us at the kitchen table with the embroiderered sleeves of his robe still unlaced and rolled up past his elbows, and poured himself a cup from the pot.

Elladan and Elrohir, restless again now they had had a bite, soon excused themselves for the baths, but Adar remained with me as I took on the last of the food. It seemed as if I had been constantly cold and hungry the entire winter, and while I certainly had endured it better than our Beorning hosts whose bread we had been eating, it was good to have a full belly again. Adar had kept thoughtfully looking at me through the fragrant wisps of vapour, and when his cup was empty, it seemed he had come to a decision.

”Will you come to see me in the morning chamber next to the library, Estel, after you have been well fed and watered and had a bit of a wash? I would speak to you alone before you go to meet your mother.”

”Has she been ill?” I asked at once. If the winter among the Beorning Men had taught me anything, it was that winter was much harsher on our Mortal kind than on the Eldar. My brothers and I had done what we could to help, but there were still children in the villages who had succumbed to fluxes or winter fevers, even such that I would have shaken off in my childhood. And for all the healing arts of the house of Master Elrond, sometimes we could do nothing but keep them company and comfort them on their way into the last sleep.

”There is no need to worry on your mother's account, my dear son. Gilraen has been well though fretful, and I will now go to report that our Estel has returned safely, though ravening as a spring bear and in dire need of having all his tunics and doublets let out in the shoulders. Eat your fill in peace, you still have a ways to grow and you have had a lean winter on the far side of the mountains. Vanniel, my friend, will you see to it that Estel has a good measure of the blackcurrant tonic as well? His mother will let me feel the sharp side of her tongue if I let him develop scurvy.”

Then Adar took his cup to be washed and left me alone, with food to spare for which I no longer had an appetite. There were other things that concerned me, now that my twentieth year-day lay in the past. If my mother belonged to the wealthier Dúnedain at least as we reckoned such, surely her clan would not let her remain unmarried, a houseguest of Master Elrond, for the rest of her life? Surely, now I was of age, someone might ask for her hand in marriage. Perhaps someone had already done so, and perhaps we were to leave the refuge of Rivendell for some small settlement between here and Tharbad, where there was no place for Mother's interests in scholarship and music. And though I had always known that I was only Master Elrond's foster son, it had never seemed to make a difference until now.

 _But I don't want to leave Rivendell_ , a still-childish, selfish voice wailed in my mind, when I rose from my place, collected the utensils to be washed, thanked Mistress Vanniel and asked her for the use for some soap, hot water and time alone in the scullery.

”What I am about to tell you now has been a well-kept secret for eighteen years, and must continue to be so in the future,” Adar had started, after carefully closing and locking the door. He had only laced his sleeves again and put on a surcoat of dark grey wool for warmth, but even without silver and gems, festive braids and silk garments, he was now in every inch Master Elrond, the lord of Imladris. Perhaps it came from the influence of the chamber, which was the one where he would receive guests from afar, or take counsel with my mother or Erestor. The windows were set high in the walls, looking out on a sparsely forested wall of mountain that a goat would hesitate to climb, with a sheer drop into the rapids of a tributary of the Bruinen, next to the loudest waterfall in the valley. On the other side of the door was a gallery and staircase with creaking floorboards, below that the main floor of the library, always filled with copyists or illuminators when the light was good. I had always thought that this chamber would be a perfect place to tell secrets.

At first I thought of the fireside legends of eerie adventure, told by greybeards in the Beorning longhouses to while away the darkest winter evenings at the turning of the year. The chieftain of a village leaves his young wife and two-year-old son for a campaign against marauding Orcs, never to return alive. His Elven comrades-in-arms bring his body home and quietly leave, almost unseen, leaving his people to grieve according to their own customs. Ashes of the funeral pyre are scattered in the wind that blows west, the Chieftain's people are no longer ones to leave gravemarks which can be desecrated or used for ill purposes.

But the Elves return. And this time, they don't bring anything back, they take instead. They spirit away the widow and child, leaving an empty dwelling behind, neither of them ever again to be seen among the living. 

It could have happened like that, almost anywhere, to anyone. But it did happen, and to my mother Gilraen of the Dúnedain, daughter of Dirhael. She had once been the young widow, and I had been the two-year-old child. The chieftain, the scion of the once great kings of Arnor, had been Arathorn my father. My true father, of whom I remembered nothing. For my entire short life, I had known his two close comrades-in-arms as my brothers.

I had never before thought that an almost empty table could be so interesting. If I had thought about it before, I'd have imagined it as Elrond's workplace in the apothecary, always covered with anything he needed to have close at hand. But the surface was bare except for three things, the case where the ring had rested and the sheath and shards of the blade. The third was a casket of stone, not at all looking as if it felt at home among the Elf-work. The stone itself was common enough, it's called soapstone in Westron. I had seen goods made from it among the Beornings, who told me that travelling dwarves pick up lumps where they can find it and whittle it into small useful things to use for barter along the road. But this casket was no mere trinket, and though any Dwarf journeyman could shape soapstone with a butter knife, someone had taken more care with the unfamiliar carvings and fittings than they would with a plain cup or a spindle. 

By the running of the sand in the glass and the journey of the sun on the sky, my foster father had not spoken for long, but it seemed to me that I had been sitting beside him for an Age if not more, straining my ears to hear his muted voice above the constant chatter of the waterfall. Even so, the youth who had scrubbed himself under the scullery pump not long ago had had other things on his mind, things that now seemed childish and small. If the dowager Lady of the Dúnedain wished to remain a scholar in the house of Elrond for the rest of her days, none would gainsay her. As if the great Thorondor had taken me on his back to heights where the air is thin and makes things swim before one's eyes, I saw my future like vast lands where dark clouds were gathering on the horizon. In those strange dark lands, being young Estel would not be enough, but it would be dangerous to openly bear the name my family gave me at my birth.

A a child, I had thought that Adar could read minds. My brothers had laughed and said that yes, he certainly _could_ , but in my case, with no worse transgressions than trampling into herb beds or hiding ripped sleeves under my bed to avoid scoldings, why even make the effort? My guilty conscience showed in my face as clearly as if in a mirror. To cover this mirror was a much harder art, one I would need to practise even harder. Because _I_ was that _Isildur's heir_ that the Enemy sought unceasingly, for centuries past and to this day. Men and Elves on both sides of the Misty Mountains had shared tales with me of wine traders from the South and East, generous when sharing their wares while asking about things not of their concern. I understood more than well what it would mean if the Heir of Elendil and Isildur was to fall into the Enemy's hands. By the love and diligent care of Adar and his sons through many lives of Men, I was the last to come out of a long and unbroken line. And with me now rested the duty to prove worthy of the name of Chieftain, heir to an exiled dynasty of kings. To live out my life as they had done, tirelessly protecting and serving their ancient lands, spoiling the Enemy's plans and pursuing his servants to their deaths. To their enemies' deaths and their own, as my father had done. As many of my ancestors had done. And for all that my shoulders had had a last growth spurt, I doubted that they'd be wide enough to carry the hopes of my people, few and frugal as they had become. No more was I _”a dúnadan”_ in the way that Rivendell Elves spoke of us. I was _”The Dúnadan”_ now. I would uphold my scattered people's needs in the North where we once ruled. I would speak for them in the councils.

”Yours is a great heritage, Aragorn, son of Arathorn,” Master Elrond finally spoke again, gently, gravely, when I had not found words to speak. And indeed he must have seen my thoughts, as he had foretold my future. ”And a great burden I have laid on you this fair morning. But you have come to manhood early, and when you and your brothers returned from your winter errantry this morning, I deemed that the time was right. You are of age now, and a long life will lie ahead of you. And though I have foreseen a path for you fraught with hardship and toil, at times it will also lead you home to Imladris, where you will always find a resting place. Son of Arathorn you are by blood, by lineage the grandson many times over of my brother, but in my heart you will always be my youngest child as few of your kin have ever been.”

”Then I may still call you Adar?” was all I could think of to ask. A silly, childish fear, of all the worries to have. But since a score of years was such a small amount of time, then I could perhaps allow myself one last youthful concern. It would have been a poor trade to have my true name and title revealed to me at the cost of a father and two older brothers.

”For as long as you wish it, Lord of the Dúnedain,” Adar said, raising me up by the hand and embracing me warmly, and in the clasp of his arms I finally felt that nothing had changed between us. ”The time may come, once your beard has filled in properly, when you are no longer in need of a father's love and counsel, or our ways may grow apart. But we will meet that time as it comes and not before.”

”Though you have foreseen a long lifespan for me, I now see how it must look by your reckoning,” I said, once again searching for the right words to describe the distance in spirit between Firstborn and Secondborn. The last time had been to Elladan during the winter, while I held the cooling body of a five year old child, knowing that even though we loved each other dearly, he wouldn't understand my grief for a child that I'd barely known. How do you describe a dandelion to someone who can't see colour, or what the song of the first skylark does to your heart after a long winter, to someone without the ability to hear? ”To the Eldar the entire lineage of Isildur must seem like that one summer day when the mayflies swarm downriver, of no more use than feeding the fish. What can we ever achieve against a deathless Enemy in the brief time that has been given us?”

"It is the blessing of Men to grow up fast and fit into their lifespan much more than many an Elf accomplished in the entire time of Arda, ruling their own fate, and that is also why Morgoth feared them," Adar mused."'Never think that a short time is any less worthy than a long one, or that great deeds cannot be done in what some in my household see as the blink of an eye. That way lie only hardened hearts and despair. Indeed, and another cause for this meeting, now that you are of age, another heirloom of the three houses of Edain only recently emerged from the shadows. Recently, even as Dúnedain or Beornings count the years."

Erestor had always been a good tutor to me, I thought. But sometimes, he would frown, or his eyes grow distant, and I now realised that he might be thinking me someone else in the line of kings that I had read about in what remained of the chronicles of Arnor and Arthedain, never imagining that I myself would be one of them. But Adar and my brothers had never looked at me like that. For them I was always me, whether I was Estel or Aragorn, just the same as my mother was Gilraen, collector and scholar of Dúnadaneth lore, instead of just one of the faceless, nameless mass of women who had married Chieftains and given birth to the next generation, also to be gone all too soon.

Elrond had ceased speaking, and I sensed that he had just asked something, about – did I really hear the word chickenpox?

"Do you remember the Dwarves that came in the company of Mithrandir, when you were ill as a child?" he clarified, with an amused look.

For shame, I told myself, woolgathering at a time like this when every word may be precious. Sharpen your mind and pay attention, _Aragorn_. My true name, but it felt uncomfortable like new boots, with the heady burning taste like my first sip of brandywine that I still wasn't sure if I liked. A dangerous name too, proclaiming me a scion of the royal line of Arnor for all that had eyes and wits to see it. A name to be used strictly among close family and closer friends. I might not be done with hiding under an assumed name for some time yet.

”I remember being a pest to you and Mother”, I answered, with a smile of my own. ”Hearing the dwarves sing in the gardens and wanting to go see them, and how the rash itched.”

”Anyone who heard you that night would _not_ have called you our best kept secret,” Adar remarked dryly. ”In any case, it was a most eventful evening to be a loremaster, as the company had made priceless discoveries in a cave in the Trollshaws. Blades wrought by Elves in the First Age, among others the sword of Turgon that I had thought lost under the Sea forever, and other things besides. Mithrandir and I took counsel with Thorin Oakenshield and his seneschal Balin, for some of the treasures had been wrought by the Dwarves of Nogrod and Belegost, and the Dwarves might be considered their rightful owners. With one masterpiece in particular, I took care to resolve the ownership question in full, since it has had a most convoluted past.”

The word _Nauglamir_ flew unbidden through my head, and in my heart arose the foreboding sense that being given care of _three_ heirlooms would be fateful. The third one is always going to be the making and breaking of the hero, cause of his success or his downfall. Now I listened as if in the Hall of Fire, with all my senses alert.

”It was crafted by Telchar of Nogrod, just like Narsil here,” Adar continued, lightly tapping his fingertips on the sword hilt. But his gaze rested on the same soapstone casket that I had marked earlier. So _that_ was the pattern I hadn't been able to place, a new Dwarvish design in the house of Elrond. It had to be new, the bronze bands and hinges were barely tarnished. ”Since it was not gifted directly to Elves but to the King of Belegost, I thought that Thorin and Balin could best advise us on Dwarven custom. But like the realm of Belegost have been lost, so has Azaghal's line been extinguished, and no one now lays claim to it. And even if Dwarves are secretive, Thorin and Balin agreed that according to even the most arcane of customs, when Azaghal of Belegost made a gift of it to Lord Maedhros, as a token of gratitude, friendship and alliance -”

”Then should it not by right of inheritance belong to you?” I exclaimed, only to regret myself at once for interrupting so rudely. That Elrond and Elros grew up as the foster sons of the last remaining sons of Fëanor, in the last days of the First Age, was a point still not laid to rest among some Elves, and if my foster father had suddenly decided to start to listen to those voices when he never had before, he might not want to acknowledge any Fëanorian connection. I _knew_ this, and I should school my unruly tongue and think many times before I spoke in the future, lest the line of Isildur ended with me.

”Well,” Elrond remarked, with a lopsided smile. ”Maedhros always argued forcefully against calling us foster sons. We, Elros and I, tried to give him a wide berth, as he always seemed – not unkind to us, never that, but dour and ill-humoured all the same. Though I have later thought that it must have been his way of protecting us in the only way he still had to give. Of the two of them, Maedhros was the philosopher, the diplomat and weaver of alliances, always conscious of the layers within words and how different mouths may speak them. And Maglor was above all else a bard who saw any word as his loyal subject, its duty to mean whatever Kanafinwë Makalaurë commanded it to mean, not always to his success. But to go on – but you already see where this is going, do you not?”

I nodded, also looking at the bronze-bound stone object. Sturdy and heavy it looked, but hardly large enough to hold the artefact I now knew must lie inside.

”From Maedhros to Fingon, and then to the House of Hador for many generations, as far as I know. Until that line ended with Túrin, and it became lost.”

”Very good. And what Mithrandir did, once he had found it, was to leave it in my keeping, with these words: ”What with one thing and another, I have been remiss in remembering myself to young master Estel. Tell him, when he comes into his heritage and his shoulders can bear the weight, that he should count this as a score of birthday presents all at once, from a friend he does not know he has, with the blessings of the Western houses of the Dwarves added into the gift. And Elrond, make sure he doesn't scratch the rash!”

And though this day had turned out to be full of grave portents, I could not but laugh. _A friend I did not know I had._ I had heard the strange and mysterious legends told about the Grey Pilgrim and his journeys in the Hall of Fire, and now I wanted to meet him even more than before.

”So Mithrandir knows, then,” I thought aloud. ”What about the other Istari, do they know as well?”

The light in Adar's eyes became shaded, and he shook his head.

”It was in the days of your great grandfather Argonui when Mithrandir returned from a dangerous journey even into the pits of Dol Guldur,” he said, in the steely quiet voice that meant he was upset. ”He confirmed to the White Council that its lord was indeed Sauron the Enemy who had taken shape anew, and moreover, was sending out spies and agents – not only Orcs and Wargs, but Men he had once again dared corrupt into his service – to find out what they could about Isildur's Heirs, if and where any could be found. And his suspicions are strong indeed, I imagine, since no Chieftain since Argonui has made it to old age, both your father and grandfather slain by Sauron's creatures. But back to Mithrandir, he was finally overruled. Saruman the White belittled the threat in front of the full council, saying outright that the House of Isildur had outplayed its role in history, that it was no more than a pawn that could be sacrificed for the greater good. The future would belong to other Men, less stiff-necked and more easily guided by the Wise. Then I began to lose faith. Saruman, it seemed to me, saw the remaining people of Arnor and their Lord as belonging to him, to dispose of as he saw fit. Many call him wise, but after that day, I have thought that his wisdom lacks deeply in compassion."

This time, I managed to hold my tongue. But in Adar's eyes, I saw that we shared the same thought. Saruman the White was not our general, it was not on his bidding my brothers and I fought Orcs and Trolls to keep humbler people safe. Nor was our father any lackey of his, to mindlessly follow whatever he ordered. None of us were sworn to fulfill his visions.

"If you will allow a sprinkling of fatherly advice to season the tale, beware any counsel that speaks of 'good' in such words. The proper measure of greatness and goodness is not the amount of bloodshed it has caused. By 'greater good' the speaker intends something else, and he coats a poisonous morsel in butter and honey to make it easier to swallow."

I nodded intently. Adar was grave still, but as the same time kind, as only Elrond of Rivendell, among all Elf Lords West of the sea, seemed to know how to be. I wondered which one of his foster fathers had taught him that.

”What has returned to the descendants of the House of Hador is a treasure beyond words, one which I am sure not even Elendil himself could have imagined,” Adar continued, putting his hand on the lid of the casket to open the clasp. 'Certainly we thought it lost forever, my brother and I, when we spoke of our Mortal heritage. As you and I both count our descent from Galdor the Tall of Dor-Lómin, this relic of Dwarves, Elves and Men of the First Age has been deemed ours to dispose of. And my judgement in this case is that as it has been given into the hands of Mortal Elf-friends as a token of mutual loyalty, in their hands it should also remain. So, Estel my son, Aragorn Lord of the Dúnedain, what are your thoughts on this score of yearday gifts that has been given you?”

When the lid opened, I could barely hold back a shudder of revulsion. Even in a miniature copy of gilt steel, the effigy of Glaurung was startling. The tiny ruby eyes seemed to echo a thrice-distilled evil, straight out of the nightmares of my childhood. I counted slowly to a dozen in my head and only then reached out to shut the lid again, grateful that my hand was steady. I had seen as much of the Father of Dragons that I needed to make a decision, indeed as much of it as I could stomach.

”First of all I would make sure that it is safe,” I said, grateful above all else that my voice had settled into a firm baritone that rang clear and true. ”If it has been part of the hoard of dragons and trolls for this long, could some of their evil remain on it? The Dwarves of Erebor are the last to have had experience of these matters, are they not? Have they been asked for counsel? And if it is so and if it can't be cleansed, should we not bury it seven foot deep as soon as we can and never speak openly of it again?”

Adar only nodded with a pleased smile, and I had the sense that I had passed some kind of test of character.

”Dwarven wisdoms from Ered Luin and Erebor have agreed with us that there is no history of dark bewitchments on it, nor any remaining taint from Glaurung's breath. If you have need to use it, it is safe enough. But, 'first of all', you said. Do you have more to say?”

”I do. Even if it is untarnished, without insult to either you or Mithrandir, I can't think of a way to use it in battle without at the same time shouting ”Here comes the heir of Isildur!” As we know it as one of the relics of the Edain of old, so will Sauron know it. Charmed it may be, but though it protected its bearer from wounds and blows, it was no help to Túrin against ill judgment or betrayal or despair. And until such time that I can fight the hosts of Mordor in the open, it had best remain hidden. Here, in Rivendell, if you will leave it a place in your treasure chamber. Even then, if there _is_ a then, I am uncertain. For the time being, I shall say like Húrin, I prefer to look at the enemy with my own eyes.”

”Conceded,” Adar says, smiling again. ”And granted. Is there more on your mind?”

”Yes.” Though in this, I would need to take counsel with my mother and brothers, to learn for myself about what kind of dealings had been between my people and the Dwarven Houses through the years. Elladan and Elrohir had ridden with most of my forefathers, and my mother had been working her way through the remnants of royal archives that had come here on secret roads from Annúminas and Fornost. They would know, better than anyone else I knew, if the Dúnedain had conducted themselves with honour, and they would be truthful about it. But if our kind had ever treated with Dwarves in ill faith, any gift or blessing might well turn against me if I thought to use it.

”It will sound as if I scoff at the value of a thing which is barely younger than the moon and the sun,” I said hesitantly. ”I do not mean to. But what Mithrandir said about the blessings of the three Western houses of the Dwarves I would count as worth more than the Dragon Helm's weight in pure gold. I may not have the gift to set words of power into craft as Dwarves and Noldor can do, but I can sense them when I see them. I recognise the runes against the Darkness set into it, and it seems to me that their power has increased each time it was given to a friend and ally in the spirit of love, friendship and unity against the Enemy. From the kingdom of Nogrod to the kingdom of Belegost, from Dwarves to Elves, between the sundered houses of Fëanor and Fingolfin, between Elves and Men. It was a powerful gift at its first giving, and it is even more so now, after each alliance on its journey has multiplied its power. Not once in its history was it ever kept jealously back, not once did it cause strife or death. This heirloom represents friendship and unity between the Free Peoples of Middle Earth and their long fight against the Darkness. And those virtues we are going to need, if we are not to be divided and swallowed by Sauron.”

” _Very_ perceptive,” Adar murmured. The smile had now reached his ageless eyes and made them twinkle impishly. ”And you neatly avoided the word _Silmarils_ throughout the exposition.”

”Do not tease me, Adar,” I said sullenly, stung in my pride. I had really thought I had discovered something of note on a weighty matter, not something to be brushed aside in jest.

”I am not teasing, Estel. As it happens, your third point never occurred to Mithrandir or me when we discussed it, and I must be too used to thinking like an Elf if I couldn't discern it for myself. Certainly you are right, the thing's history has shaped what it is today, and shaped its meaning to different people. Dwarves, Elves and Men might see it and remember that they were once part of a greater purpose. They may yet remember their alliances and friendships with beings unlike themselves. And if I am smiling, it is because I take joy in the man you have grown up to be, and even more sure of your virtues than I was this morning. You have wisdom to recognise and courage to defy the Dark, clear eyes to make the hardest choices between different virtues of equal value, as your people did when they made the choice to persist in stealth rather than perish in open battle. You know the value of true allies and how to keep them by honesty and honour. What you see of weaknesses in others will stir you to compassion, not contempt. However your fate turns out, the Dúnedain will have a worthy Chieftain in you. Whatever happens, this thing will remain here if and until you have need of it.”

 _If, or until, or ever?_ I thought. I had often wondered if I would inherit the Sight I knew ran in my mother's clan, which shape it would take and if it would be one familiar to us. Most Dúnedain lore lay shattered and divided between different clans, with each lorewarden safekeeping a part of the whole, not to be spoken of with outsiders. Much had been forgotten and deliberately destroyed after the fall of Fornost, and what remained was not safe to speak of in public or put down in writing. If I took it in my hands, would the Dragon Helm of Dor-Lómin speak to me of a future when I could use it openly in battle against the enemy? Dwarves might have the strong necks and stubborn spirits to mock and challenge evil by working its image in gold and steel, but I feared that such strength had never been granted to the Dúnedain. And would it be true foresight, or would it be vanity, rashness and pride leading to a terrible fall, as the kings of Númenor had fallen?

”If, when, and until,” I sighed. ”For now, Adar, I think I have had enough of secrets, heirlooms and locked chambers for this day. ”

”Especially as this day is turning out to be gloriously beautiful,” Adar agreed, lifting his fair face against the sun as it topped the ridges and started to peek inside. ”Go now, my son, seek out your brothers in the baths and ease your heart with them. Go to see Gilraen after that – she will make you known to the Dúnedain elders that have lived with us for the winter, you may learn much from them while there is still time. If either of you are in need of me, I shall be in the birch forest harvesting wood garlic and Nienna's tears with the herbalists, and making sure no apprentice comes home with meadow saffron instead. And as soon as the stars come out, we may well be singing hymns to Elbereth through the night, celebrating that all my children have returned safely home from their journeys.”

As new beginnings went, that was not such a bad one, I reflected, when I went on my way through the library, past the long tables by the high north-east windows. I would sit down in a steaming tub with Elladan and Elrohir and open my mind to them, as we had done many times before. I would speak to my mother, now that no more secrets remained, and as the new Chieftain of the Dúnedain I would meet my people. One new part had been added to the long and defiantly unbroken saga of the heirs to the three Houses of the Edain, and wiser minds than mine could consider what part, no matter what lay ahead, the Dragon Helm of Dor-Lómin would play in the future. For now, I would go to the baths.

**Author's Note:**

> Plant names: "Nienna's tears" is a name I made up (I think) for lily-of-the-valley, which is also named Mary's tears, so I couldn't not see the parallell. Meadow saffron is automn crocus. Both are extremely poisonous, and Elrond doesn't let the apprentices at them. Forage safely, if you forage.
> 
> Feel free to share your thoughts and feelinga in the comments!


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